Introducing Fozzie
7 February 2021
Ken G messaged me at 8:20 Monday morning:
Hi, Laura. Without your blessing, I just this a.m. checked for you at Halter's (my primary shop of choice) and he said that he happens to have one Topstone 4 in stock, in your size, assuming that you ride a small. Any interest? Should I ask Jason to hold it for you?
We were less than 24 hours into a 36-hour snowstorm. We'd already shoveled twice. The possibility of a road ride was far off. What one would need in the coming weeks would be a gravel bike, preferably a Cannondale Topstone 4, size small. Ross had searched his connections for me a week ago and had come up empty. Michael was similarly bereft of lower-end stock of anything in my size. There were none to be had on eBay, nor even on Amazon. I'd resigned myself to the wait, running a little contest in my head between finding a gravel bike and getting a COVID vaccine.
I told Ken yes.
It takes a village, or, at least, one person who knows everybody. Ken knows everybody.
My last experience at Halter's was in 2000, when I was looking for a road bike to replace Bluestreak, my 1983 Raleigh Grand Prix. I'd been in a handful of shops; Halter's treated me the worst, as if I were not worthy of their time. With help from a friend, I found Kermit, the Waterford, at Trexlertown, and never went back to Halter's. They've changed owners and locations since then. Both Ken and Bob N swear by them. I'm not even sure I know the owner's last name. Everyone calls him "JasonAtHalters."
This time was different. JasonAtHalters and I traded a bunch of text messages on Monday. I sent him my bona fides (four steel, one carbon), just in case there were any questions about my seriousness, and I sent him my measurements too.
The storm moved out late Tuesday morning, and I went back to the lab. In the afternoon, JasonAtHalters texted me again. The bike was ready, minus a few details, like the saddle, tires, and pedals. He sent me pictures by text as I talked to him by speakerphone, and by 5:00 I was on my way to take Fozzie home.
The bike slid in my car with the front wheel still on. Fozzie was one up on Grover already.
Of course, I had to tell the Slugs, and that set of an hours-long chain of high-level snark. Pete wanted to know how we'd be able to tell my bike from Ricky's. "Mine's the one with the bear," I answered.
The snow stuck around all week, despite a bit of rain on Friday morning. Tom hatched a plan to drive to Sandy Hook. The coast, he figured, wouldn't have as much snow. We'd start on the beach, head to the Henry Hudson Trail inland, and go as far west as we could, until we hit snow.
Pete, Ricky, and Jack H were up for it. As I drove across the state on I-195, I didn't see what looked like any less snow than the foot we got at home.
So there we were, in the first parking lot of the Gateway National Recreation Area, looking at sand covered with snow. If nothing else, it made for a good picture.
It was a clear, windy day. At the edge of the sky, far off to the southwest, tomorrow's snowstorm was moving in.
JasonAtHalters did a good job setting Fozzie up to my measurements, but he missed a little on the seat height. It seemed all right at home, but one never knows for sure until the bike is on the blacktop. I stopped to drop the post a little, going by feel. I got lucky on my first try.
We crossed over the mouth of the Shrewsbury River, getting separated on the bridge. We stopped to regroup next to some shrink-wrapped boats.
I heard someone call out, "Wrong way!" I took a few more pictures, then turned around. I didn't see anyone. This wasn't the first time I'd been dropped while taking pictures. Nor was it the second. Nor the third.
I went back up the bridge, which was good practice for figuring out where the levers are on a one-by Microshift setup. Thick gloves are no help here. I got to the top and found myself alone. I rode down the ramp again and across the street to the side opposite the boats. There was nobody there either. So I went uphill again, stripped off my gloves, and called Pete, because he rides with his phone on his handlebars for GPS.
"Where are you?" he asked. I'd needlessly climbed the ramp twice, having passed right by a little side street at the bottom. At least I got some climbing in.
We passed through Waterwitch to the Henry Hudson Trail entrance. If Tom, the only one on a mountain bike, hadn't been stopped ahead of us on the path, I wouldn't have known that's what it was. What we saw was a thin trail of mashed-down snow, melting and slippery even to walk on. I went a few yards in, on foot, for photographs. The rest of the group stayed back.
Tom returned, having scouted out snow as far as he could see.
If this had been thirteen years ago, I'd have been following a handful of winter mountain bikers, slipping and sliding on Grover as I tried my best to catch up. Half an hour ago, Grover had become a bike of the past.
We decided to tool around town, look for views of the bay, then go back to Sandy Hook to ride the road to the tip of the peninsula.
First we found one of the ferry terminals.
Then we found another side street with a view.
It was next to a restaurant that had all the markings of an overly tacky, fried-everything, tourist trap, the sort of place one winds up in when one is hella hungry and desperate.
We crossed back over the river. At this point, there was some discussion of whether we should go south along Ocean Avenue for a while, or go back to the park. I'm almost certain I heard Pete say "turn left," but then he turned right, and the four of us on gravel bikes inadvertently got ahead of Tom. We stopped, and when he caught us, we turned around. There was too much traffic and if there was any shoulder to speak of, it was under sand and snow.
The last time I'd been on one of these silly rides was in March of last year, right before lockdown, when I led a bunch of people to the Raritan River end of the D&R Canal towpath. These rides always start out with a purpose, but there comes a point when it's obvious that effort and destination are no longer important. So we stopped a lot for pictures.
It's been a while since I've been to the northern end of Sandy Hook, to Fort Hancock, where there seem to be as many abandoned buildings as occupied ones. More of the area was fenced off than the last time I was up here. Some of the buildings are being demolished.
Looking for views of the ocean, we turned into several side roads that led to dead ends. We chose not to cross the sand. Not even Grover was good for that.
Gunnison Beach is the nude beach. No, we didn't check.
We found another side road.
Ricky planted his bike in the snow.
We climbed to the top of the viewing platform there.
The sky was starting to cloud over.
My camera's 40x zoom caught the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge.
Farther along, I stopped for more abandoned buildings.
We turned south again, on the main road, back to the parking lot. Now the sky was getting more cloudy, and the afternoon sun reflected against the water in a silvery-gray glare.
Across the bay was what looked like a giant barge. Ricky told us it was the Earle naval station pier. I focused through branches to try to get a picture of it.
The wind, out of the west, whipped sand into our faces.
Before we put our bikes away, Rick and I posed them against a fence. His is a large frame, mine a small. Because of its size, mine looks a lot more like a mountain bike than his does. It feels like a road bike, though.
It was definitely a good first ride. I'm sure I'll have some jitters when I take it out on the towpath.
Tom and I walked over to the viewing platform next to the parking lot so that we could take some final pictures.
Grover, or what's left of him after I stripped him of his Muppet and saddle, is headed for the Trenton Bike Exchange, along with a spare set of tires and a handful of inner tubes. The front brake is still clamped taut with a Velcro strap so that the cable doesn't fall out of its housing in transit.
So I didn't really do n+1 here. Grover is out on the back porch. Only inside bikes count in the tally.
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